You Get What Your Given
by rigglerkicks
Summary: 'We could be a reality show, she thought wryly. Lies, sex, drunken chick-flick moments, the occasional Demon charging into the motel room at ten am while Dean was chucking up last night's burrito. It could be called 'Wanking with the Winchesters', because essentially, that was what they did.' WINSISTER, INCEST, SLASH, THREESOME - DON'T LIKE DON'T READ.


A/N: **So this fricken story will not leave my head. Done fanfiction before but not of the Supernatural kind, I understand that this 'winsister' thing is a bit of tetchy subject so...I've given it my best shot. The chapters will weave in and out of the Season 1 storyline. Expect incest, wincest, and a whole lot of other things. Don't like = Don't read. Comments appreciated. It's not Beta checked...because I don't have one (though if anyones willing...) Please enjoy. Will add some more chapters depending on feedback.**

Chapter 1 — Weekend Blues

"Housekeeping!"

Derek raised his hand again.

"It's open!"

Lazy bitch, he thought bitterly, pushing the door open and yanking his wheelie mop and bucket along with him. The room was like every other room he'd cleaned since eight this morning. Pastel pink, quilted bed with a mattress actually stuffed with wood shavings, a kind of fishy smell that he figured was something to do with the dodgy plumbing and a fan that sprayed mothballs if you turned the piece of crap up full blast. But what the other rooms hadn't come complete with was the small blonde girl, sitting cross legged at the end of the wood chipping bed, surrounded by paperwork.

Her eyes, a colour kinda like burnt toffee, darted to Derek as he stumbled into the room.

He swallowed and raised a shy hand.

"Do you want the number of a suicide hotline?" She snapped.

His smile dropped. She turned away and Derek caught site of a cell-phone sandwiched between her ear and her shoulder.

"Well your obviously on some kind of egoistical death march, maybe some four dollar-an-hour professional can talk some sense into you", she continued, flipping through a tattered leather notebook in midst of all the paperwork.

She paused, her hand on a page. "Overdramatic? Like overdramatic the time I told you not to have anything from the diner because that's how the witches were compelling the children and you chugged one of their Milky Moo Shakes? Or overdramatic like the time I told you not to sleep with the wife of a pissed spirit and you did it on the guy's lamborghini?"

Derek knocked over his bucket.

"Sorry."

The girl threw him a cross look. "Housekeeping", she told the receiver, resuming her conversation.

Derek mopped the bathroom floor silently. The chick was blatantly off her rocker. Spirits? Witches?

"So you don't mind if I work my own case, huh? Like….. The werewolf in Alabama?"

Oh he so wasn't paid enough to listen to this crap.

"I'll rent one," she replied icily to the cell.

There was a murmur from the other end of the line and her face paled.

"What do you mean I don't have my licence?" She rummaged frantically through her paperwork and pulled out a leather purse. "What…" She dropped it, her expression murderous. "Where is it?"

She was silent for few moments, listening intently, scratching the back of her head. Clearly her hair hadn't seen brush this morning. The wavy tendrils were tucked inside the collar, peeping out near the curve of her lacy white bra. Shame she was nuts, Derek reflected. That body really wouldn't suit one of those white nighties they stuck on them in the wacko houses. She wasn't slender, more lean, with a little arse that stuck out from the bottom of the chequered shirt she had shrugged on. She caught Derek staring at her. He turned a deep red and hurriedly shuffled into the bathroom.

"Yeah."

"Fine."

"If you want."

Her bitten fingernails drummed against the leather book.

"Ok. Will do".

She dropped the phone, scowling.

Derek came out the bathroom. "I'm finished here", he said nervously. He wasn't sure if he was more freaked out by the fact she was a complete nutjob, or that she was insanely hot. Probably the latter.

"Congrats", she said dryly, continuing to shuffle through paper.

Crabby nutjob, Derek thought, shaking his head, heading for the door. He'd just shoved the bucket and mop out into the hallway when she suddenly spoke up.

"Hey!"

He practically fell over himself to get back in the door. "Yeah?" He said breathlessly.

"Is that yours?"

He followed her pointed finger out the window and into the parking lot. His solitary truck stood in the bay, the number plate cracked, the headlights stained with bird shit.

"Um. Yeah."

She smiled. She wasn't just hot, she was beautiful. Dimples that disappeared into her sloping cheeks and an overbite that was presently toying with the bottom lip of her pert mouth.

"My Uncle had a truck just like that. 1970 Ford?"

"You know cars?"

She turned a delicate pink. "I know models", she corrected, "start talking engine size and horsepower and I get wobbly."

He shrugged. "Most chicks don't know the difference between a Chevy and a Cadillac. Makes you a pro in my book."

"Bobby always took twenty minutes to start that damn truck", she said, smiling fondly at the memory. "Ignitions a bitch huh?"

He scrambled round his pocket. "Looks more like bottle top opener", he laughed, holding out his hand to show her the bent remains of his key.

"Just needs some elbow grease", she shrugged.

He didn't hesitate. "Be my guest". He tossed her the keys.

She caught them neatly with one hand and with the other, she pulled out a revolver from underneath the duvet.

She sighed, her dark eyes apologetic. "Hands behind your head."

Derek blinked at her, not really processing the gun, or her abrupt change in facial expression.

She clicked back the gun.

His heart dropped to his feet. The chick was actually serious.

"Floor."

He fell to the knees. She slid off the bed, her bare feet going tap, tap, tap, as she crossed the floorboards towards him.

"What's your name?"

He looked up at her. "Da-Derek," he spluttered out, faltering over his own words.

"Well Derek. I hope you have a nice rest of the week."

Her fist met his head with a sickening crack. He swayed on the spot, eyes rolling, before crashing to floor, out cold.

She swung the keys round her index finger, staring at the body.

No Dad. No Dean. One guy out. And it was only 9:30 on a Saturday.

* * *

24th of August, 2001:

Dean 21, Clara 19, Sam 18.

"Gerroff!-don't!-ow!-that's my hand!"

"Don't lay over my freaking lap like some horny schoolgirl then!"

"Dick."

"Pussy."

"Both of you help me find my pants", growled Clara, crawling over Dean to stick her hand under the front seat.

"You can play conkers with these things", Dean mused, watching her breasts swing over his face. "Hey, Sammy," he beckoned with a grin, "take a look at this."

Clara's face collided with the Impala's interior as Sam fell on top of her, wedging himself, her and Dean into some kind of bizarre sandwich.

"Jesus Sam!" Clara groaned, her head throbbing.

"Fudaking gerrofff me!" Garbled Dean, his voice muffled by Sam's right foot.

"SAM! DEAN!" Bobby hollered from some way across the Salvage Yard. "CLARA!"

The scrambled around frantically, pulling on shirts, tugging up zippers and straightening out hair.

"What the fuck!?" Demanded Dean, looking over the front seat, aghast. "Dude! You jacked over my handbrake!?"

"Why do you always blame me?" Sam scowled over Clara's shoulder. "How the hell do you this thing!?" He griped, brow furrowed as he pulled the mauve bra in different directions, nonplussed.

Clara rolled her eyes. "Hook in the holes!"

"There's no hooks!" Sam cried, running his hands through his hair.

Dean grunted, turned round, seized Clara by the waist and hauled her onto his lap. "Never let a girl do a man's job."

"You guys round there!?" Bobby yelled.

Sam thrust his head out the window, "Just coming!"

There was a sudden loud rip, unmistakably one of fabric.

"Shit."

Clara gave a high-pitched hiss, rather like the succubus they had caught in Iowa the week before. "That was thirty-nine dollars you ham-handed dick!"

Dean held up the two halves of the bra and shrugged at his younger brother.

Bobby, only a little way away from the stationary Impala and the three teenagers jostling around in the back seat, scratched the back of his head. It was too hot to be chasing the Brady Bunch. Frankly he didn't see why John didn't pack the three of them with some crossbows and dump them in a vamp nest — put all those hormones to good use. Well. That was a lie. He knew why he didn't, but Winchester still owed him a bottle of Jim Beam for putting up with his out of control brood.

He turned the corner, almost walking straight into the petite blonde.

"You called?" Clara said, arms folded, giving him a very familiar tip of her right eyebrow.

Bobby scowled. He was all too familiar with Miss Winchester and her supposed innocence. Fluttering chocolate lashes and sweeter than a cone of carnival candy-floss — she was a piece of walking confectionary, a sugar covered pistol to be more precise. If Dean was the fighter and Sam the thinker, then Clara was definitely the talker. All dimples and promises, till she stabbed you in the back with a knife and nailed it through your spinal cord.

"Dumb and Dumber fixing whatever mess you've been hiding from me?" Bobby guessed, his tone stony.

"Hey, Bobby!" Dean's head poked the Impala's window, "took you long enough. Couldn't jump start it for me could you? Toots almost pulled out the spark plug."

Clara glared.

Bobby's wizened mouth pursed. "Whatabout Sa-"

"Green giant almost lost half a pinky last time he put his hand in there", grinned Dean. "Hands are valuable tools for us men." He gave Clara a wink. "If you get what I mean."

She narrowed her eyes. "Bite me."

"Jerk".

"Bitch."

"ENOUGH!"

They all looked at him. Three sets of identical eyes daring him to question what they'd really been doing for the last hour and half. Sam innocent. Clara sweet. Dean brash.

"I don't wanna know", Bobby muttered to the heavens, before bending over the hood of the Impala.

* * *

The truck lurched forward and Clara's skull thudded back against the seat.

"Useless piece of-"

She wrenched the shift back. The truck growled then settled into a steady rumble.

"You want go down the interstate in two, then fine, not like I'm trying to go anywhere important or save anyone's life." She blew her fringe out her eyes, trying to stay focussed on the road ahead. When she found Dean she was going smother him in bacon grease, take him to Colorado Zoo and book him a dinner date with the tigers.

It was another long three hours before she finally drove past the Jericho sign. All Clara had left was five dollars, her gun, the truck and an old mascara brush. Cranky, hungry and contemplating other animals that may like to take a chunk or two out Dean when she delivered him up, she parked up near the gas station and headed in.

While paying the cashier with a fake number and the five dollars she had left, she noted the rusty paint job sitting outside. A slim girl was in the front seat, applying a thick coat of something cheap and red.

Clara was good with people. Dean was good with guns. And Sam could be good with either depending on his mood. Undercover jobs had always been her strength. She'd been a cheerleader, a teacher, a PA and a CEO. And at the moment, she was ninety per-cent sure that the girl in the car was a prostitute.

She checked the date. Sunday.

It was a gamble. But her brother's sex drive was a certainty.

"Hey honey, got some lippy on your teeth".

Kathy flinched. A blonde in her early twenties peered through her car window, all smiles and southern drawl.

"Thanks", she replied brusquely, shoving the lipstick back in her glove compartment.

"Don't sweat it," the blonde grinned, standing straight.

"Wait", Kathy said, her curiosity peeked. "Do I know you?"

"You know Dix?"

Kathy frowned, "I know a Dixie. Fake rack, red hair?"

"Big mouth in more way than one?" She finished. "Yeah. Dixie and I have done a few together. Never knew why though", she shrugged, "more than enough arse to go around." She smirked knowingly at Kathy. "You got a job tonight?"

"Yeah", replied the brunette bitterly. "Some motel joint. Probably some college dropout with a cock the size of a pickle."

Clara grimaced. "Hey look, I'm heading over that way anyway, why don't you let me do pickle guy?"

Kathy bit her bottom lip, but shook her head. "No. No I need the cash."

"Well I've got some guy in a bar due at about eleven, we could swap?"

She hesitated and gave the girl a sharp look. "What's he paying?"

"Two-fifty, cash. Yours?"

"Two-ten", she replied ruefully.

"Sounds fair," the blonde winked, "mileage and all."

Kathy hesitated. She was tired and she really couldn't be fucked to drive all the way out to that disgusting motel in the middle of nowhere, plus chirpy seemed eager enough. Kathy scanned her over. She was quite small, cute more so than hot. But, hey, what did guys care when they were sloshed anyway — arse was arse.

"Alright." She scribbled down the address on the back of a Nut Goodie wrapper. "Guy's called Dean." She handed Clara the address. "Don't fuck it up."

The girls exchanged a few more niceties, before Kathy turned up Madonna to full blast and skidded out the gas station, tooting Clara on her way down the street.

Clutching the wrapper in her hand, she headed back to the truck. A hooker on a Sunday night? Seriously. Her brother must be feeling particularly blasphemous this evening. Or the playboy channel was showing reruns again.

Review: Please ;)


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